Flint's Don't Cry
by Girl Friday
Summary: A little peek into the childhood of the one and only Marcus Flint. Please R&R. thanks!


Title: Flint's Don't Cry.  
  
Author: Sarah a.k.a Girl Friday  
  
Rating: R for some graphic language and mild violence.  
  
Genre: Drama most likely  
  
Authors Note: I basically made this to give another possible perspective on Marcus' life. Most people write him as coming from a very poor family. I made him rich. Of course I have no proof that he has a little sister named Daphne. I just made that up. I wanted to add a little bit of depth to Marcus. Please forgive me if it's crappy, I don't usually write fic.  
  
Disclaimer: The character of Marcus Flint belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is just my interpretation on his childhood. Daphne is my own creation … but I don't mind if you want to use her yourself!  
  
An expensive looking clock ticked away the seconds on the dark mahogany desk. The young man, Marcus Flint, sat with his long legs stretched across the plush leather couch. It was to be another hour wasted in silence. Marcus had been asked by the school to see psychiatrists. To help everyone understand the violence that seemed to consume his life. But he was a Flint, and Flint's don't talk to psychiatrists.  
  
"Marcus, Why won't you talk to me?" the soft voice of his shrink melted into his brain. //because there's nothing to talk about// he scowled darkly.  
  
"I don't have anything to say" that was a safe enough answer.  
  
"Well" she paused looking down at the folder on him she had sitting on the dark desk "Why did you beat up that boy?"  
  
He almost smiled at that question. Two month ago he had beaten the shit out of Oliver Wood. Of course he felt he had every right. //fucking gryffindor's don't know how to keep their mouths shut// "Because he made me angry"  
  
"Let me see if I heard this correctly. The boy made you angry, so you broke his nose? That doesn't seem like a very constructive way to channel your anger" she frowned slightly. Marcus was used to that face though, he'd been seeing it most of his life. His mother gave him that face every time she bothered to care.  
  
"It wasn't about channeling my anger. It was about teaching a punk Gryffindor to keep his mouth shut." He nodded his head at that. //he was asking for it. Cocky bastard. //  
  
"Marcus, why don't you tell me about your childhood. You and your sister were adopted am I correct?" she was looking at that ruddy file again. //one of these days I am just going to take that and rip it to fucking shreds. //  
  
"Yes, my and Daphne's mother abandoned us shortly after she was born" had actually left them on the doorstep of St.Christopher's Church. Of course the shrink knew that, it was probably in that file. //thinks she is so fucking smart//  
  
"How does that make you feel?" she gave him an encouraging smile. He usually wasn't so talkative. The hour was usually spent in complete silence.  
  
"How would it make you feel if your mother fucking abandoned you?" he was scowling again. He could only faintly remember his real mother. Considering he was only three years old when she had ran away.  
  
"I think that I would be very upset, and hurt. Is that how you feel?"  
  
"I feel like she didn't deserve to be a mother in the first place, if she would just desert her children like that" he was never going to have children. No chance of fucking up someone else life.  
  
"I understand that" she was marking something on that file. "Do you remember when the Flint's adopted you?" she looked up again.  
  
"Yes" of course he did. That was the day his life had started going downhill. //I couldn't have a fucking normal childhood could I? I couldn't just play and screw around like any other little boy//  
  
"Would you like to tell me about it?" another one of those warm smiles. He was convinced the practiced them in the mirror at night. He gave small shrug of his shoulder. There was no real harm in talking about this. No one else would ever hear what he said.  
  
"I remember living with a foster family. I can't remember their names but they were really nice. Can remember thinking that these people were going to be me and Daphne's family that we would never be hungry or cold again. Then one day the Flint's showed up. They scared the fuck out of me back then. Dad is a big guy, and he's not very friendly looking. Mom is very pretty; she has the same coloring as Daphne and me. The pale skin and dark hair thing. I can remember how ecstatic she was that we actually looked like we could be their children. I didn't want to go home with them, but I was just a little fucking kid back then. I didn't know about money, or about how poor I would have been living with the foster family" that was true. No matter how bad his father treated him, his mother had always been there to fill the void where his father's love should have been with some new toy, or expensive quidditch equipment.  
  
"What was grow up with the Flints like?" she looked then as if she already knew what he was going to say. //shut the fuck up Marcus, she doesn't know about how dad was. The only people who know about that are your parents and your sister. Keep it that way! //  
  
"I guess it was like growing up with any other family. I want to a private school. At night I had piano lessons, the flying lessons on weekend." He wasn't sure why he had told her about the piano thing. His mother thought it was adorable watching her young son play the over sized piano that sat in the music room.  
  
"What was your home life like?" she had moved her chair away from her desk now. Nice legs were showing now. //stay focused Marcus; stop thinking with your prick. //  
  
"We live in a big house. My mom collects antiques so you always have to be really careful. She doesn't like seeing fingerprints on her furniture" he knew that well enough.  
  
"What would have happened if you were to get fingerprints on her furniture?" she had pulled that blasted file into her lap, but Marcus hadn't even noticed. He was too consumed by his own memories. The dark haired curious little five years old he had once been. Playing in the yellow salon. Riding around on his toy broom while his beautiful little sister sat on the overstuffed couch clapping and squealing like the happy baby she had been. If he had been just a little bit more careful she would have stayed that way. That didn't happen though. The little boy was just a bit to excited. He hadn't meant to knock into the side table. Definitely hadn't meant to knock the crystal vase off the table. The sound of expensive glass hitting the ground was almost deafening. His mother had been the first to arrive in the room. The way she screamed you would have thought it was his sister he'd broken and not just a vase. His father arrived moments later. The look on the older man's face still haunted Marcus at night. The small boy had ran then, but his father was much larger and could cover ground faster. After the first blow Marcus had gone numb. He couldn't tell you how many times his father hit him then. //fucking bastard, he beat his own son over a broken vase//. But he learned an important lesson that day, when he had started to cry after a particularly harsh blow. "Flint's Don't Cry!" he father had bellowed before hitting him again. He would never cry again.  
  
"Marcus?" she was sitting in the chair next to his now. Her soft hand was resting on his arm. When had she moved there?  
  
"Yes?" he managed to croak out after clearing his throat.  
  
"I lost you there for a moment. What were you seeing?" Her pretty face was covered in a look of deep concern for the younger boy.  
  
"I was just thinking about my dad. That's all" he shrugged, trying his best to look nonchalant.  
  
"What about you father Marcus? You look as if you've seen a deamentor!"  
  
"Nothing all right?" he stood then looking at the clock. "It's time for me to go anyways. I'll see you next week" with that the tall muscled figure moved to the door. The memories of his father were still haunting him. He would have to rush back to school, make sure his sister was ok, then hope in the showers, try his best to wash away the memories of all the different beatings he had and would take from the man who liked to call him self Marcus' father. 


End file.
